Sky High

It was a miserable day in early spring; April, to be precise. For a week or more the wind had blown steadily from the north-east, bringing with it low, scudding clouds that from time to time precipitated a cold drizzle on the long-suffering pedestrians who had to go about their business regardless of the weather.The interior of my study-cum-sitting-room, cosy though it unquestionably was, began to pall, and I was at my wits’ end to know where to look for distraction. “Oh, to be in England now that April’s there,” sang the poet—and took jolly good care to keep out of it. Obviously, he was a shrewd fellow. The thought struck me, why should I not follow him to the sunny blue skies of the Mediterranean? Yes, that was the thing to do. I would go and see about booking a passage right away.